


Black, Red, and Purple

by orphan_account



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers, Tokyo Ghoul
Genre: Ghoul! Alfred, Ghoultalia, I COULDN'T HELP IT, Insanity, M/M, Mild Gore (for now), OCs - Freeform, The Downward Spiral, characters and tags to be added to as we go along
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-10
Updated: 2015-05-10
Packaged: 2018-03-29 23:54:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3915403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sweet. It was so sweet, with just the right amount of sourness to it. He had never tasted anything so wonderful in his life... Strength flooded his arms and legs and immediately, the pain he had been suffering from just seconds before was gone and he felt better than he had ever been in centuries.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Okay so I thought I wouldn't be putting anything up for a while, and turns out I was wrong and this thing came out of my ass. Uhm, so I'm deffo working on my other stuff, for those who're wondering. I promise I'll update the others soon, but for now, I've got to admit, I have a pretty good idea where this is going (I hope).

Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. Yet Alfred didn't know, couldn't know what it was. His eyes snapped open after a heart-stopping moment of thinking he'd gone blind. He shot up and out of bed, only to trip over his sheets and fall heavily—and painfully— to the floor. He stayed that way for a while, pathetically crumpled up, moaning and writhing in pain.

Pain. It was stuck in him like white hot blades in his side running up to his chest. “What… the fuck?” he choked, grappling with his shirt and lifting it to see bandages covering most of his body, just barely visible in the dark. The unbearable pain radiated from there and to the rest of him in nauseating waves. He struggled to his feet but couldn't bear it. He fell to the floor once more and, tears in his eyes, dragged himself across the room to where the bathroom was supposed to be.

Except it wasn't there. Panic began to squeeze Alfred in from all sides and he couldn't hold it back anymore: he wretched and vomited all over the floor. When he'd pushed out all that he could and then some, he slumped onto the floor and slowly curled up into a ball next to his puddle of puke. The pain was horrible. Throwing up had only made it even more so. He could feel his consciousness fading fast, and he encouraged it to. But instead of leaving completely, it started returning more, with increasing clarity. He sobbed and cursed and moaned because he didn't want it. He didn't want to feel this pain anymore. He didn't even know where he was—he certainly wasn't in his bedroom. It was a little too dark to ascertain his surroundings but he knew that much.

He tried to focus and see through the pain enough to figure out his situation. He wasn't in his room. He’d been gravely injured, from the look and feel of it. Somebody had taken him here and patched him up. But the questions his deductions brought with them were near-infinite. Who had brought him here? Where was he, exactly? And most importantly, _what in god’s name happened to him?_

He forced himself into a sitting position and winced violently when another wave of pain made him see stars in his eyes. He began to whimper softly and examine his bandages, but then the sound of hurried footsteps outside made him freeze. People began to whisper.

He craned his neck, hoping to recognise someone’s voice and maybe figure out what was going on. Unfortunately, he didn't hear a word of English and he couldn't place either of the two voices he was able to distinguish. He didn't know them, and he didn't know what they were talking about. For about five seconds, he quietly apologised to Arthur in his mind for all the times he had ever denied his offers to teach him a few other languages. The voices began to rise. One was hissing something angrily and the other seemed on the verge of crying out in frustration. From the sound of what they were saying, Alfred surmised that it might have been Chinese or Japanese. The idea confused him further, instead of clarifying things. What would he be doing in China or Japan? He didn't recall having any business in either country. When he tried to resuscitate his memories, his head started to throb and he squeezed his eyes shut, breathing heavily.

At last, the voices seemed to come to an agreement. They came to a hushed stop and somebody’s hand rested on a doorknob. Alfred tensed, ready for a fight though he knew his chances were grim. He was in too much pain and he could barely stand, let alone punch someone. Still, he could bite, right?

Biting someone? A chill went through Alfred. Why did the thought of that excite him so much? He shook his head. This wasn't the time for kinky thoughts.

The doorknob turned somewhere to his right. He squinted, trying to get a better view. Taking a deep breath, he pushed his leg up from beneath him and forced himself to his feet. He clenched his fists and rolled his jaw. Whoever these people were, he wasn't going to let them take him without a fight. The door opened with a flood of light. Adrenaline exploded like a wildfire in Alfred’s veins and he pounced on the first person who walked in unprepared. Things began to happen in slow-mo. The man turned to him with eyes widening. His arms went up in a sorry attempt at self-defence.

That was when Alfred felt something crack inside of him. It was like the adrenaline rush was alive, taking over his body like a demonic possession. Half of his consciousness—the rational half—peeled away from his body and he watched in horror as his hands clamped onto the man’s shoulders and his knee rammed into the man’s stomach, sending them both to the floor. He brought a leg over the man, straddling him, and grinned as he thrust his hand into the man’s rib cage, snapping bone and tearing flesh. The man screamed and screamed and screamed. Alfred ignored him and reached inside and found the man’s racing pulse. He grabbed it and ripped it out with a laughing snarl. He held it high over his head like a prize, feeling it throb in his hand and revelling in the warm slickness dribbling down his arm. He lowered the pumping muscle and crammed it into his mouth without so much as a preamble.

Sweet. It was so sweet, with just the right amount of sourness to it. He had never tasted anything so wonderful in his life. He could feel it rushing through his system, his bloodstream. He could feel his wounds inside and out knitting themselves closed. Strength flooded his arms and legs and immediately, the pain he had been suffering from just seconds before was gone and he felt better than he had ever been in centuries.

Then, without warning, something was stabbed into the back of his neck. He hissed and shrieked, clawing at whatever it was, but soon enough, he was sinking into the arms of unconsciousness. That was when his rational half finally managed to realise what was going on.

He wanted to scream with revulsion, to cower and cry because God, oh _God_ , he'd tried to _eat someone._ He wanted to vomit all over again, if only to rid himself of that disgusting thing. But he couldn't, he was already falling to the cold, hard floor. Before he lost himself to the darkness completely, he heard someone come into the room. He recognised English, heavily accented as it was.

“You should have been more careful,” the voice said flatly. “This was one of my most difficult projects. There was no telling what might have happened.”

“Sorry… sir… What will we… Uh… do now?”

“Wrap him up and send him, of course,” replied the voice casually, as though he might have been talking about anything but a person—and a nation, at that. “It will be quite interesting to see what happens next.”

* * *

 

When Alfred woke up next, he was sweating like a pig and crying like a kindergartener. He looked around and slowly began to realise that he was home. His room. His bed. He cried out as relief washed over him. Was all that just a dream? He looked down at his torso. There was only one way to find out. With shaking hands, he took up the hem of his shirt and lifted it slowly. He'd screwed his eyes shut and only opened one a fraction when he’d pulled his shirt up completely from his stomach.

It was bare. No bandages, no wound, no scar.

He felt new tears flood his cheeks. He wiped them away. “Thank God,” he murmured, his shoulders shaking. “Thank God…” Absorbed in his relief and mental exhaustion, Alfred didn't notice someone come in.

“A little too early in the morning for ogling yourself, isn't it?”

Alfred’s head snapped up at the sound of a familiar voice. The voice he loved so much. “Arthur,” he croaked, lowering his shirt hem. He tried for a smile, though he knew it wouldn't amount to much. “How're ya doin’?”

Arthur stepped inside with crossed arms and a scowl that could burn down entire villages. “Worried sick!” he snapped. “Do you understand what kind of crisis the world is going through?” He stomped over to the foot of Alfred’s bed. “You selfish little—Do you have any idea how much I—How could you just—argh!” He threw his hands up and raked them through his hair before jabbing a finger at Alfred. “Taking off on your own, leaving behind the vaguest letter possible… Has it entered that thick skull of yours at all that you're actually a _vital_ country in this war?”

Alfred couldn't understand a thing Arthur was talking about. A letter? Leaving on his own? What? When did he ever do that? What for? But Arthur was so red and out of breath that Alfred couldn't very well argue with him now. It was obvious that he truly had been worried. He didn't need any more stress on his conscience.

“I'm sorry,” Alfred said, and he meant it. “For everything that happened, I'm sorry.”

Arthur looked like he hadn't expected that answer. He sniffled and angrily wiped his eyes and nose dry. “You had better be,” he growled. “How could you miss your own birthday, you prick?”

“I did?” Alfred raised his eyebrows. “Well, that's okay, I guess. There's always next year. No biggie.”

“It certainly is a… biggie,” Arthur said hotly. “To me, anyway,” he added quietly. “I'd planned so much for nothing in the end…” He looked up at Alfred with a piercing glare. “You had bloody better pay for every pence I wasted on you.”

Alfred laughed. “Sure, sure. But first…” He spread his arms wide. “I think someone deserves a hug.”

“Definitely not. You don't deserve anything more than corporal punishment for abandoning the world for two weeks.”

“I wasn't talking about me,” he said gently. “Please, Artie? You know you want it.”

“What makes you think that?”Arthur sneered.

“Because I do too. Come on, one hug?”

Flushing but without backing down, Arthur strode over to him and sat down at his side. In moments, Alfred had scooped him up in his arms and was holding him like he'd never be able to do so again.

“Alfred,” Arthur whispered, tugging on his sleeve. “What’s happened? You're shaking.”

“Nothing, just…” He buried his face into Arthur’s neck. “Let me stay like this for a minute.”

Arthur hesitated, and Alfred knew that he suspected something. He was indulging Alfred right now by not asking questions, but the latter knew he would bring it up sooner rather than later. Well, as of this moment and this very second, that didn't matter. Alfred had Arthur in his arms and had just survived the worst nightmare of his life. Just minutes before, he'd felt like he was drowning. Now he was floating on cloud nine.

“Alfred…” Arthur murmured, his breath tickling the nape of Alfred’s neck. His hands were clutching the back of Alfred’s shirt now in a rare but endearing show of weakness. “Oh Alfred, my dear boy… I'm so glad you've come home.”

Alfred swallowed a sob. He'd been so scared of that dream being true. He could still remember the taste of that man’s heart. It made his teeth and tongue tingle with yearning even now. But he had Arthur now too. More than in that dream and more than that guy’s bloody, beating heart, he yearned for Arthur. He wanted him so bad.

He pulled away from Arthur and let the old nation brush his knuckles against his cheek. The touch made Alfred shiver and he raised his hand to cup Arthur’s and pressed it against the side of his face.

“Can I kiss you?” he asked softly, stroking Arthur’s hand with his thumb.

Arthur blushed a faint pink but smiled. “Only if that’s all you’ll do,” he replied. “You still need rest because we have a Ghoul conference tomorrow and—”

Alfred cut his rant off with a lingering, yet chaste kiss. When he pulled away, Arthur’s cheeks were flushed almost red. The older man looked down and began to mumble, “and you have to talk to your boss and—”

Another kiss. Deeper, this time. Arthur pushed him away but did so without spite. He was redder than ever. “We’re _not_ going to do that here!” he hissed.

“Why not?” Alfred nuzzled into the base of Arthur’s neck and planted a kiss on his collarbone. A low moan rippled through his body, letting Alfred know that despite his words, he couldn't deny what he truly wanted.

“Because,” Arthur said, a little breathless, “Francis and Matthew are here. They'll hear u—us…” His voice hitched when Alfred traced a finger from his jaw down to the first button of his shirt. Oh, he had it bad, alright. He could smell the sweet shampoo in Arthur’s hair, the smell of his freshly laundered clothes, and the smell of his perfume. He could smell the desire rolling off of the smaller body. The smell of his skin… His flesh…

Then he felt it. A pang of hunger so strong that it made Alfred double over and groan. Arthur was all over him in seconds, asking him what was wrong and if he was alright. He began to call for Mattie and Francis, but Alfred grabbed him by the wrist. A fragile wrist. If he snapped it… Ripped off that hand… How would his fingers taste like…?

“No,” he gasped, letting go of Arthur like he had the plague. “Don’t. Don't call them. I'll… I'll be okay. Just go downstairs and… and cook some breakfast… Okay?”

“Don't be ridiculous, America,” Arthur said vehemently, sounding more than a little hurt and alarmed by Alfred’s words. “I'm not going to leave you like this.”

“England. Go down. Now.” Alfred wasn't sure how long he could hold himself back. He couldn't let Arthur be there if he lost it. This… This utter desire to just push him down and devour him was too much. And Alfred knew full well what that meant. Arthur proved dissuaded. Alfred had to yell at him to “Go!” before he actually stumbled back, taken by surprise, and left the room and Alfred alone. Alfred kicked off his sheets and pulled his knees toward himself. He yanked at his hair, feeling sweat and tears and spittle trickling down his face and mingling at his chin and along his jaw. _Oh god, please no. No no no no._ This couldn't be happening. This was impossible. He was a freaking _country_ , for fuck’s sake. He couldn't be… He couldn't possibly be one of _them_. After fighting them for so long and watching as hundreds of his people died to these monsters and swearing to become the hero that vanquished them all, why was this happening to him? What made him into this… whatever he was?

Alfred staggered out of bed, toward his bathroom. He gripped the sink with both hands until his knuckles went white. Breathe, he told himself. In. Out. In. Out. There was one way to be absolutely sure of what he was. Only one. Though he was terrified of what he would see, he forced himself to look up into the mirror.

He bit back a scream.

His left eye had gone totally black, with a deep purple iris with flecks of red at the centre. His other eye hadn't turned black, but its iris had also turned purple and red. Veins bulged around both his eyes, more prominently around his left one. The sight made him tremble and his knees gave out beneath him. It was useless to think of it as merely a nightmare now.

He was a Ghoul. The United States of America had turned into a man-eating, heartless, virtually immortal monster.

“Alfred?” Arthur’s voice made him jump, but the older nation hadn't come in. He was just outside however. “Are you alright? Do you need aspirin? I've brought food…” Alfred’s stomach growled. Fear festered in his heart like an infection. He couldn't let Arthur in. Not now. Not when he could…

“I'm… I'm okay!” he called, trying to suppress the shaking of his voice. “Just leave it at the door. You guys can go home!”

“Alfred.” The tone wasn't accusatory or scolding. It was merely concerned. Pleading, even. “Alfred, I—”

“I need to rest, right? I'll rest, I promise.” Alfred hugged his knees to his chest. “Just… go home. I'll see you tomorrow. Tell Mattie and Francis I say hi.” Even without saying anything, Alfred knew that Arthur was seriously thinking of arguing. He was ready for that, but instead of pushing his point, Arthur said, “Very well. I’ll leave it all right here. I’ll tell them.”

“Thank you,” Alfred said, grateful and relieved.

The sounds of a tray being set on the floor and retreating footsteps told Alfred that Arthur had gone. Crawling out of his bathroom, he got to the door and opened it to reveal a tray of blackened scones, some biscuits, and a steaming mug of coffee. Alfred pulled it into the room and shut the door. With his back to it, he picked up a scone and, gulping, popped it into his mouth. He gagged. The scone tasted like wax and burnt rubber. He spat it out and helplessness flooded his body. He fell limply onto his side and began to sob. He forced another scone into his mouth, only to vomit it out again. He pushed biscuits into his lips. Rotting wood. His stomach balked and protested. He threw up and sobbed harder. He couldn't eat it. Any of it. Everything tasted like shit. Worst of all, he knew that it wasn't because Arthur had made some of it. He knew what he was now. He knew what he wanted to do.

He wanted to die.

* * *

 

But he couldn't very well die with so many people counting on him and _not_ knowing he was actually a Ghoul.

There was a great deal of chatter and general noise coming from the other side of the door. It sounded like practically everyone in the world was there. Judging from how late Alfred was, he figured they all were. He nervously straightened his tie for the nth time and took a deep breath before he opened the door to the conference room. The moment he did, everyone fell silent and looked at him. He could barely keep himself upright from all the nervous tension in his legs. All the scrutiny didn't help either. With everyone staring at him and studying him, he just knew somebody would figure out his secret. First of all, he wasn't even carrying around an extra large soda or a hamburger like he normally did. Oh the thought of his old favourites almost made him believe his stomach was pining for them. But no, he knew the truth. Second of all, he was pretty damn sure he was staring at everyone like they were his next meal. That's what they all looked and smelled like to him at this point. Everyone looked to him like what a hamburger used to.

Then there was Arthur. Sweet, beautiful, delicious—gah!—Arthur. The singularity of his ravenous hunger. The one person he just wanted to gobble up to the bone. He was gorgeous, with his messy blond hair and dazzling emerald green eyes and his elegant eyebrows and his soft, pink lips and _he was coming this way_. Alfred did the only thing he knew how to do best: P.I.E.

Panic. Improvise. Escape.

Arthur had a storm in his eyes. As usual. Behind him, Francis and Mattie followed with wary expressions. Alfred swallowed hard. P.I.E. Phase 1: Panic had begun. Arthur walked right up to him and narrowed his eyes. It looked like he was carefully choosing his next words. “So you did come, America,” he said finally. “I thought you would be physically incapacitated today.”

Alfred laughed and hoped he didn't look like he was totally hiding something. “Yeah, well, funny story, really.” He cleared his throat and went through the thousands of excuses he'd made up in his head. P.I.E. Phase 2: Improvise. “I, uh, got a really bad case of LBM, y’know, when your stomach and your ass just work together to give you a total shit time?” Although Alfred and perhaps the rest of the assembly expected Arthur to get pissed off by that, he reacted quite the opposite way. It was like all the tension drained from his body and he almost deigned to smile. Alfred could see it tugging at the corners of his lips. But his pride quickly and obviously overtook his sentimentality.

“I see,” he said blandly. “Well then, I expect our meeting will go smoothly despite this?”

“You betcha!” Alfred said cheerily. Arthur opened his mouth—likely to shoot some sort of scathing remark at him—but Francis put a hand on his shoulder.

“We’re just glad you're back safe, _Amérique_ ,” he said, using his rare genuine tone. “We were all worried, one way or another.”

 _If you only knew_ , Alfred thought grimly, _you wouldn't have been._ He brought himself to nod. “Thanks. Glad to be back. Hope I wasn't missed too much.”

“That was an understatement, I think,” Mattie said with a shy but really happy grin. “Nobody here knows how to stir up a meeting like you do.”

“If by ‘stir up’ you mean ‘disrupt and send into chaos’,” snorted Arthur, “then yes, indeed, you were always one of a kind.” For a split second, those green eyes flashed a meaningful look at Alfred that made his heart flutter. Arthur had meant those last words, and only Alfred would ever know how deeply so. Having been his lover for well over a decade allowed him that privilege.

How Alfred wished that he wasn't tempted to eat Arthur’s face off (literally). Maybe then he could have gathered the brazen nerve to kiss him in front of the assembly. Now however, he couldn't trust himself enough to even entertain the thought. It only made his hollow stomach groan and beg for relief.

“Well…” Enter Phase 3 of P.I.E.: Escape. “I've gotta talk to Japan a bit before Germany starts this thing up. See you guys later!” He gave them a brisk, two-fingered salute and left before Arthur or anyone else could stop him. By now everyone was back to talking like normal. He got a lot of hi’s and hello’s and where were you’s and even some cheers and toasts. If none of them knew any better, it might have been a simple reunion party amongst old peers. But they all knew why they were here. They all knew what they were going to do. Alfred pushed his way through the crowd and found the man he was looking for.

“Japan!” he hollered over the din. “Over here!”

Kiku looked up from his phone with a puzzled look. He turned right to left and upon spotting Alfred, walked toward him with the question in his eyes before he said it aloud. “What is it, America?” he asked.

“I need to talk to you a bit,” he said, cupping a hand over his mouth and beckoning Kiku closer. “Wait for me later after the meeting ends.”

Kiku appeared slightly confused, but he nodded. “Alright. I'll wait outside for you. Um… If you'll excuse me, my superior was calling me just now. I’m sorry to leave you like this but I have to go.” With a polite bow, he turned to leave.

“Uh… Kiku?”

“Yes?”

“It's bad news,” Alfred said morosely. “And I don't know what you'll make of it.” Kiku paused, a bothered expression darkening his features. But almost at once, he regained his composure.

“Bad news is bad news,” he decided. “I'll listen to what you have to say.”

Alfred breathed a sigh of relief and watched as Kiku disappeared into the throng of countries milling about, waiting for Ludwig to call the meeting into order. Alfred glanced at his watch. Ten thirty in the morning. The meeting was supposed to have begun an hour ago. At first Alfred had suspected the delay was his fault, but he’d quickly realised that Ludwig didn't start meetings late just because a long-missing country suddenly came back. He always started on time like he and his actions were clockwork in and of itself. Something must have happened. Alfred gulped and hoped it wasn't what he thought it was.

For a while, he let himself mingle. He walked and talked and got a (disgusting, sulphuric) cocktail in his hand before he even got anywhere near Poland or Spain. That was when the real talking started. And seriously, it was just talking. No substance whatsoever. It certainly kept his mind off whatever had kept Ludwig from showing up in front to start the meeting.

By the time Mattie spotted him, however, the nerve-wracking wait was over. The sound of a gavel striking the speaker’s podium up front brought everything to a standstill. Ludwig stood there with his typical annoyed disciplinarian look, gavel in hand. “Countries of the world!” he boomed. “Go to your designated seats without further delay. We have little time left as it is. Let the 546th World Conference on the Complete and Total Annihilation of the Ghoul Species commence.”


	2. Provocation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HOLY CRAP I KNOW NOTHING ABOUT INTERNATIONAL POLITICKING OR AMERICAN GEOGRAPHY SO PLEASE BEAR WITH THIS SHIT OF A CHAPTER  
> Also, forgive me, but I had to add OCs. Two as of now, anyway, because, man, this fic will die if I don’t add OCs. I am so sorry. Please don’t throw knives at me. Or the OCs, it’s not their fault, really. Also, I did the crappy job of making up lingo for this universe. I know, I know, I suck at life.  
> Anyway, here’s the vocab for this chappie:
> 
> Kags – short for kagune because English-speaking people can’t be bothered with that shit (I kid, I am sorry English-speaking peoples)  
> “legend waffle” – the way Alfred hears what Ludwig calls kagune, which is lebend Waffe (lit. “living weapon” because I know no German)  
> USAAGA – United States of America Anti-Ghoul Agency, pronounced You-Saga (American CCG—sorry for the originality)  
> Half-over – the state in which a Ghoul is about to give in to instinct  
> Reds – human meat
> 
> And that’s it! So sorry you had to read through that, but I thought I needed to warn you and stuff. Many thanks to everyone who’s reading this until now, and who thought the first chapter was comment- or kudos-worthy!

“Let's see… Chapter One says I can't eat human food… Well, duh. Tell me something I _don’t_ know for once.”

 

Alfred lay with his stomach on the floor as he studied the open book before him that Kiku had recommended. Ever since he discovered that he'd turned into a Ghoul, he'd been walking a fine line between totally losing it and losing _just_ a part of it, whatever _it_ was. Sanity, humanity, identity, whatever-ity. In the beginning, it had been so hard to accept, but as the days passed since his return, he began to force himself to face the truth and try to figure out the quickest way to get back to normal.

 

His first step in that grand master plan was to stop moping around all depressed about it. If there was anything that set him apart from the other nations, it was his unwavering optimism and determination. Be it a terrorist attack or turning into a Ghoul, the ever-awesome and larger-than-life USA couldn't very well be kept down. He wasn't one known to be a quitter and as far as he knew, every American on the planet was born a fighter, whether or not they knew it themselves.

 

The second step was a classic he’d picked up from Artie back in the day: get to know the enemy. Hence the open book lying on the floor and his frustration. Like most everyone in the world, he knew what Ghouls were. He knew they lived on human flesh. He knew they had what Kiku’s place had dubbed _kagune_ and Ludwig’s had officially named some German word that sounded like “legend waffle” or something—stuff Alfred’s people just called Kags (because who wants to call that stuff like breakfast, legendary or not, right?). Or just the “living shit that can rip your liver out.” It didn't really matter. Anyway, despite having the rudimentary Ghoul basics down pat, Alfred didn't (read: “couldn’t”) really consider himself an expert on the things. He was planning on asking a USAAGA chief to tell him more about them but he was certain that not everything he would learn would apply to his situation. He was a Nation, after all. His body was a little… different from a regular human’s.

 

Alfred rolled onto his back with a sigh and stared up at the ceiling of his bedroom. His stomach let out a quiet whine and he put a hand on it. “Shut up,” he muttered and like a poorly tamed beast, it growled at its master.

 

Maybe, if you thought on the bright side and konked your head on a wall hard enough, here were a lot of perks (if you could call them that) to being a Ghoul, Alfred supposed. Heightened senses made it easier for him to know if somebody was sneaking up on him or if said someone was attempting yet another horrifying meal (which were three hundred times more horrifying now, with Alfred’s altered taste buds) or if said someone was the one knocking on his bedroom door…

 

Alfred jumped to his feet, his nerves on edge. Whenever Arthur was around these days, his nerves were _always_ on edge. He walked briskly to the door and ran a hand through his hair anxiously before opening it. Of course it was Arthur. Alfred (and his new Ghoulified senses) could easily recognise those quick, successive raps and that indignant huff of breath when he didn't answer quickly enough.

 

“Hey, Artie!” he grinned from ear to ear. “What’s up? You should've called if you were gonna come over. I would've ordered pizza or something.”

 

“Spare me your idea of fine dining,” said Arthur dryly, though his eyes sparkled in a way that made Alfred shiver with giddiness. He stepped aside to let the older man through. Arthur entered with a purpose to his stride and pulled out the chair from Alfred’s study table. Once he had seated himself, he held out a paper bag Alfred hadn't noticed when he'd first come in. “Here,” he said simply.

 

Alfred blinked, taking the paper bag. Arthur scowled at him. “Don't look at me like that, boy,” he said, though his tone wasn't as harsh as his words implied. “You haven't been eating like usual, have you? Your insides must be in worse shape than I imagined.”

 

“So you got me something?” Alfred could feel his stomach reeling from the thought of eating human food but he bravely stamped out the revulsion he felt and put on a grin. “You're real sweet when you want to be, Artie, you know that?”

 

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Don't get your hopes up. I only bought you a loaf of bread and some soup packets. I’d make you something, but _obviously_ you’d whine about that. No junk food or soda, of course. It’s for the medicine,” he explained, his gaze wandering around Alfred’s room and falling upon something on the floor.

 

Alfred stepped forward and picked up the book he'd forgotten to hide, trying hard for a natural look.

 

“You're studying?” Arthur said skeptically, raising an eyebrow. “You must be gravely ill, then.”

 

“Hey, I read too, you know.”

 

“Comic books, yes, but not _books_. And especially not books about Ghouls.”

 

“Ouch,” grumbled Alfred, feigning hurt.

 

“But,” Arthur said, straightening, “since we’re on that topic, I might as well ask you if you've heard about what’s happened since you disappeared.”

 

Alfred barely suppressed his grimace. He set the paper bag down on a nearby drawer and crossed his arms, leaning against the wood. His stomach continued its persistent begging for food, but he managed to ignore it for the moment. “I… Yeah, I have,” he said slowly, pushing down the rising urge to eat something. Anything. No, not anything. _Arthur._ “Kiku told me after the last Conference we had.”

 

When the two of them had talked that night, Alfred had shared with Kiku something he'd only just learned from his President: about how four powerful one-eyed Ghouls had begun to move around more freely in the States, especially in the west. Of course, he'd only told him that in the hopes that Kiku would share with him something similar, something somehow related to Alfred’s kidnapping and subsequent transformation. One-Eyed Ghouls weren’t exactly the easiest topic to bring up in casual conversation. Regardless, the report was still nothing but the truth and Alfred had a nagging feeling that what had happened to him was connected to the phenomenon somehow.

 

Kiku hadn't exactly rewarded him with a tantalizing lead or a definite answer, but he _had_ said that something was going on. Ghouls had been getting stronger suddenly for some reason in the weeks just before Alfred disappeared and especially during the time he was gone. At this point, even B-rated Ghouls were giving high-ranking officials all over the world a headache. Everyone was scrambling to defend their Ghoul-free borders. Hence the failure to send enough search parties after Alfred until he himself turned up at his own door.

 

“How are things at your place?” Alfred asked, shifting from one foot to the other.

 

The question made Arthur turn away and glare holes into the wall. “About as well as everywhere else,” he said darkly. “The buggers have overrun five more villages outside London since last month. My people are in a horrible panic. Survivors are turning up in London as refugees, but not even the city is completely safe.” Alfred saw his jaw clench and his hands shake, his fingers curling and uncurling. “What I would give to be able to lead soldiers against them…” Alfred dipped his head in silent agreement. He knew how Arthur felt. Because they were Nations, they were both respected and at the same time, treated like glass. They were too precious to be on the front lines. Oh sure, they could provide support, but only with enough back-up nearby to get them out if things went awry. A long silence fell between them as they both wallowed in grim thoughts. Surprisingly, it was Arthur who broke the silence.

 

“Did Kiku also tell you about the…” he cleared his throat. “Others?”

 

Alfred nodded. Months before his disappearance, two other Nations had vanished as well. They were tiny countries though, so no one really minded their absence, and they returned after two or three days, looking disoriented and a tad withdrawn. While Alfred was gone, one other Nation went missing. Another tiny country. No one had really noticed yet, but Kiku and Arthur had obviously connected the occurrences to each other and, ultimately, to Alfred. Unfortunately, this made Arthur unusually suspicious. Alfred swallowed hard, knowing that the time for questions had truly begun. He did his best to ignore the hunger pangs trying to cloud his thought process. He needed to focus on not screwing up, which he did way too often.

 

“I want you to answer me honestly, Alfred,” Arthur said, caution lacing every word like he was dealing with a bomb on the last seconds of its timer. “What _really_ happened to you?”

 

Alfred closed his eyes. He was on the brink now, teetering on the edge of his Ghoul side. Why did this have to happen every time he was near Arthur? Couldn't his Ghoul self let them have a decent conversation for once?

 

_Pale, papery skin… The veins beneath, carrying his sweet, sweet blood…_

 

“Nothing,” he said flatly. It took a few seconds for his rehearsed excuse to form on his tongue. “Nothing happened, Arthur. I needed a… breather from all the meetings and I got that.” It was a terrible lie. Coupled with terrible acting, it was pathetically easy to see through. Even Alfred could tell that much.

 

Arthur seemed to struggle to keep his voice level. “And the GPS tracker in your arm?”

 

“Took it out. Didn't want anyone bothering me. Besides, I had it put back in after I got home, right?” Alfred tried to wave it off. “It's no big deal, Artie. Stop worrying about it. I just went on a little vacay. Maybe you need one t—”

 

Arthur slammed his hand against the table and stood up, instantly silencing Alfred. He was flushed red with anger and his voice shook as he spoke. “This _isn't_ a joke, America. You know who you are to the world. You know how many people rely on you. You know how many people trust you. You… You know how many people _love_ you. If you let yourself get hurt or get captured, you aren't the only one who gets hurt!” The older Nation’s green eyes flashed with unshed tears. “You aren't the only one,” he repeated quietly.

 

Alfred could feel his arms straining to reach for Arthur, to grab him and hold him and just embrace him. He wanted to apologise and say that he would never do something like that again. He wanted to tell him the truth—

 

 _Eat him._ Eat him. _You're starving. You'll die. He's meat. Juicy, delicious meat. What does his blood taste like? You want to know, don't you?_

 

He gripped his arms, hugging himself tightly to keep himself from pouncing on the other Nation. He was wrong. His body didn't want to hug Arthur. The hunger was getting unbearable. He'd gone weeks without eating or drinking anything except coffee. This was the shortest conversation he'd had with Arthur before his Ghoul instinct started taking over. He knew he was at breaking point, or at least that he was close to it.

 

“England,” he said, forcing an edge into his voice. “I'm not in the mood for your stupid nagging.” _I'm so sorry._ “I can do what I want when I want. You aren't the boss of me anymore, remember?” _Oh god, Arthur, I am so sorry. I don't mean it. I really don't._ “Quit nitpicking everything I do. Just—Just leave me alone, okay?” _Leave before I hurt you. Before I kill you. Before I…_

 

The raw hurt in Arthur’s eyes was agony to watch and so, Alfred turned away, swallowing the tears. He didn't want to do this. He didn't want to hurt the one man, the one Nation he loved the most. He knew how easily words could break Arthur’s heart, but he now knew how easily his hands could break Arthur’s body, too. He couldn't have that. Not that blood on his hands. No. No no no no no no _no._

 

“Alfred, why…?” Arthur whispered, looking absolutely betrayed. “How could you say that?” The pain in his expression melted into anger, then flared up into rage. “ _How could you?_ After I spent hours, days, weeks looking for you, worrying about you, you bloody fucking idiot? How much time did I waste until now? Why don't you give it back, you fucking prat? Well? _Why don't you?_ ”

 

Alfred bit back his apologies, his “I love you’s.” He bit back his true emotions. If he didn't…

 

“Alright, I see how it is.” Though it quavered, Arthur’s voice was ice and steel.“I am _terribly_ sorry for encroaching upon your domain, oh great United States of America. I am _so_ sorry I acted like a worried fool when I thought you'd been abducted.” He pushed past Alfred on his way to the door and Alfred tried not to see the wetness of his cheeks as he did. “Certainly,” he said as he opened the door to leave, “it won't happen again.” He slammed the door shut as he left.

 

At last, Alfred let himself sink to his knees as he clutched his side and bit down hard enough on his lower lip to draw blood. His breaths came out in brisk, hiccuping wheezes as his body shook with wave upon wave of hunger and his head throbbed with an intensifying migraine. He collapsed in a twisted heap, sorely tempted to give in. It was only a matter of time now, he knew, before he could no longer fight the side of himself that longed to rip his beloved to shreds.

 

* * *

 

The diner was musty and cramped. Actually, it barely even passed as a diner. The only things claiming it as such were the signs above the door and the counter. It smelled like a stomach-turning mix of musk, sweat, and grease. Alfred stepped inside with his hood thrown over his head and gagged at the barrage of odours that assaulted his nose. A big and buff African-American—his name was Jax—ushered him inside, glancing outside a bit before shutting the door behind them. There were around six or seven other people in the “diner”, either having drinks at the counter-slash-bar or lounging with coffee by the dusty windows. Jax led Alfred to the cashier, behind which a man was leaning back in his seat, absolutely engrossed in a game of Crossy Road on his phone.

 

Jax cleared his throat. “Yo, Bryan,” he said in a voice much less gruff than Alfred had imagined. “This guy’s half-over. Says he needs the reds.”

 

The man named Bryan was a tall guy, lanky and all arms and legs. When he stood, he was a good head and a half higher than Alfred. He pocketed his phone and pulled out a pair of glasses. He put them on as he leaned over the counter. “Half-over, huh?” he said in a scratchy voice like he hadn't used it in years. “How long’s it been since your last one, eh?”

 

Against his will, Alfred squirmed beneath the other Ghoul’s gaze. He told himself to calm down—he was one of them for now. “A—A couple months,” he stammered, looking down at his shoes. As if in confirmation of his words, his stomach whined. He clutched it, feeling his face heat up with shame. Ah well. At least it made him seem a bit more in character as a pathetic Ghoul who couldn't hunt even if it meant his ass getting hauled in by the USAAGA. That was his cover story for Jax anyway. Despite being all over the news as USAAGA case number 221—alias Centurion—he was a pretty understanding guy.

 

Bryan was quiet for a moment before he turned and disappeared behind a curtain to what was presumably the kitchen. Jax nudged Alfred with his elbow and gestured to one of the unoccupied tall bar stools. Alfred walked over to it and seated himself, keeping his fists in his hoodie pocket, clenched so tight he could feel his fingernails cutting into the skin of his palm. Bryan reappeared with a covered plate and some utensils. He placed them in front of Alfred with a flourish that made his long limbs look graceful for a few seconds.

 

“ _Bon appétit_ ,” Bryan said, smiling as he folded his arms on the counter. “It's on the house since you look like shit and all.”

 

Alfred mumbled a thank you but his stomach growled loud enough to muffle it completely. He blushed even more, feeling totally repulsed by his body and how it curved toward the sweet smell leaking from the covered plate. His throat went dry. “Actually… Actually could I have this, uh, to-go?”

 

Bryan’s eyes seemed to dissect him in the split second before he said, “You're not from around here, are you?”

 

Alfred tried not to let his mild panic attack show on his face. “Guilty as charged,” he lied semi-smoothly, even managing a chuckle or two. “Just got here from New Jersey a week ago. Is there some sorta rule here about take-out?”

 

“Nah, not really.” The diner owner pushed himself up from the counter to tend to the empty mug that a customer had left behind. He brought it with him into the kitchen along with Alfred’s plate. When he returned, he dropped a brown paper package covered in bubble wrap and duct tape in front of Alfred. “But there's a reason no one orders to-go much around here, kid,” he warned. “You watch your back on your way home.”

 

Alfred gulped. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled, taking the package and tucking it into the lone pocket of his hoodie. His fingers itched to rip it open and shove its contents into his mouth but he told himself to be patient. At his very core, he was human, right? He didn't _really_ want to eat people, right?

 

 _You’re no human. You're a horrible liar. That's what you are. A lying, hungry—no,_ starving _Ghoul_.

 

He winced slightly at that. It was his inner Ghoul talking again. It was the reason for him being here, in this abandoned lot right at the lip of one of New York’s shadiest parts. The parts where most of NY’s Ghouls dealt with each other and where its humans don't dare enter at all.

 

“So, um, thanks for the grub, Bryan,” he said, standing up to leave. “See you around.” He waved goodbye to both Bryan and Jax before exiting the diner and landing on the intersection between human territory and Ghoul territory. He took a deep breath and failed to ignore the faintest whiff of blood wafting down from the unlit streets to the north. He heard the door open and close behind him and felt, rather than saw, Jax walk up to him. Wordlessly, he steered Alfred down the road away from the smell of blood.

 

“Bry told me to see you off,” the muscular man said simply when Alfred turned to him with the question on his lips. “Dangerous parts, these. You can’t just saunter down the road with freebies in your pocket and zero fighting experience.”

 

That pissed Alfred off more than he cared to admit. Okay, so he wasn’t the best fighter amongst the Nations of the world. He would certainly admit defeat in a swordfight against Arthur, Antonio, or Francis. Martial arts were something he left to Kiku, Yao, or Yong, and he pretty much gave up sniping to Ivan. _But_ , his wrestling wasn’t too shabby and he had just about the best weapon-tech of anybody on Earth. Which he totally knew how to use! Really!

 

“Buddy, I know inexperienced when I see it,” snickered Jax like he’d read Alfred’s mind. “You might think you’re good against average people, but our kind is a totally different story. Especially the NY variety. I dunno about New Jersey or Texas or hell even Tokyo—I hear a lot about those Japanese creeps—but this is the worst city to be in if you don’t have the slightest idea how to kick your own ass.”

 

“I know the basics,” grumbled Alfred as he cradled the packaged meat in his hands. Of course he knew the basics! He’d been on the ground, killing these things with Q-bullets for years! He’d even grappled with a couple of them before shooting their brains out—

 

“Tell you what,” said Jax abruptly, turning to Alfred, “I can help you out. Give you some Ghoul Self-Defence 101.”

 

Alfred pursed his lips. This was _way_ too shady. He’d played enough video games to know that a random stranger just _offering_ to help you out like this was a mouse trap sloppily covered in cake frosting. He was either an NPC programmed to help, or an NPC programmed to betray you. The latter was more likely in real life.

 

“What’s in it for you?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at the Centurion.

 

Jax took one look at him and shrugged, looking bashful. “It’s just…” He scratched the back of his neck. “I had a friend once. Little thing. He could barely break an arm, much less kill someone. I was always looking out for him. He’s… Well, he’s gone now, so I guess I still see him in guys like you. I’ve trained a whole bunch of NY newbies that’re in the big leagues these days.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You know Bry. USAAGA’s got him down as Pressurepoint—an A-rate, too—but if I hadn’t gotten to him when I had, he wouldn’t even be here.”

 

Alfred still wasn’t impressed. “How do I know you’re not just going to kill me and hand my balls over to your friends on the other side?”

 

The Ghoul blinked, then barked a laugh. He clapped a heavy hand on Alfred’s back. “No you don’t, my friend,” he said. “None of us ever do around here.”

 

They continued to walk until the iron tang of blood vanished from the air completely. The streetlamps were alight starting the next block over. At the last intersection before the first of the lamps, Jax stopped.

 

“This is where I drop you off,” he said. “Few guys back there were gonna jump you, but I sent ‘em packing.”

 

Alfred’s eyes widened and he craned his neck to see past Jax into the gloom. “When did you…?”

 

“Told you,” Jax laughed, “I trained a whole buncha those bastards. They’re not about to pick a fight with me.”

 

 _So the smell of blood wasn’t just me imagining things…_ Alfred thought uneasily. He hugged the meat closer to him. “Thanks.”

 

“No problem.” The dark-skinned Ghoul began to walk in the direction opposite the light, then he paused and looked over his shoulder at Alfred. “Hey, my offer’s still open, alright? Just swing by the diner till next week if you want in.”

 

Alfred didn’t know what to say, really. “What are you gonna do after next week?”

 

“Road trip,” called Jax—he’d started walking again. “See you around, newbie! Oh, and steer clear of the checkpoint up ahead—you remember the way around I showed you, right?”

 

And just like that, Alfred was left standing at the edge of the darkness Jax had disappeared into. He thought it was kind of funny, how his feet touched both the light of the human districts of New York and the darkness of its Ghoul districts. It was how he really was. His true self, neither here nor there. Neither human nor Nation, but not exactly Ghoul either.

 

He pulled out the package from his pocket and closed his eyes, resisting both the urge to tear it open and the urge to dump it into the sewers.

 

_Just what the hell am I, really?_

 

* * *

 

 

“You want to know about the Owl?” Kiku asked incredulously as he set down his cup of tea. “This is unusual of you, Alfred.”

 

Alfred leaned back, his hands behind him on the cool wooden floor of Kiku’s home. He let his feet dangle out over the edge overlooking the Asian Nation’s beautiful Zen garden. “Well, I just got a little curious lately,” he admitted. Really he was. “What do you know about him?”

 

Kiku’s expression darkened and he looked down at his tea. “Not as much as we would like to,” he said quietly. “Ten years ago, we lost a lot of good men to that monstrous abomination.”

 

“He’s a half-and-half, isn’t he?” Alfred asked, pulling in his legs and sitting in an Indian position. “A One-Eyed Ghoul.”

 

“Yes, he is. Born to both human and Ghoul, an extremely powerful hybrid. Not to mention…” Kiku trailed off, biting his lip not out of apprehension but of irritation. The anger in his eyes was very unlike him, Alfred noted.

 

“Not to mention?” he prodded when Kiku failed to continue.

 

That seemed to snap the other Nation out of his thoughts. He looked up at Alfred, startled. “Ah, that is… The One-Eyed Owl is also what we call a _kakuja_. One who eats his own kind to evolve. To gain power. It is what you call GEs.” Ghoul-Eaters.

 

“A GE, huh…” Alfred mused. “You don’t usually mention that in the official Conference reports about the Owl, do you?”

 

Kiku seemed reluctant to answer, but he did so anyway. “Yes, well… Being a half-Ghoul already places the Owl at such a height that we feel it… unnecessary to add to the threat it poses.”

 

 _Your boss doesn’t want to look like you can’t handle it_ , thought Alfred as he studied Kiku’s troubled expression. Japan was among the best at anti-Ghoul strategy, second only to Germany and Switzerland. Of course his boss wouldn’t want him to sing praises to a Ghoul during Conferences. He wanted Kiku to look impressive and in control, not on his knees and begging for international aid.

 

“It’s okay, man, I understand,” said Alfred brightly, reaching over to pat Kiku’s shoulder. “We’ve got problems at home too, so I totally get it.”

 

The other Nation seemed to relax at this, even managing to smile at Alfred. “Thank you,” he said sincerely. “On the matter of your ‘problems back home’…”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Alfred frowned. “We still haven’t caught up to the four bastards crawling around in the west.”

 

“I see… Where were they last spotted?”

 

“Well, two weeks ago two of them were around Utah and Montana—just a bit of back and forth between the two. Last week, one of the other two was sneaking around a pub in upstate Oregon and the last one was shot trying to leave Idaho just yesterday.”

 

“Shot?”

 

“Yeah, the Feds say they got him good back there,” said Alfred, grinning, but his grin soon faded, “but he still got away. Which isn’t all that great to me.”

 

“Oh…” Kiku paused. “So they are not all moving together?”

 

Alfred rubbed his chin. “We know two of them are,” he said. “The other two, we don’t think so. But since they’re all generally sticking to the west… The possibility hasn’t been ruled out, though lots of people say it’s just because the security around there kinda sucks.”

 

“As opposed to New York City?” Kiku said smilingly, mischief in his eyes.

 

“Hey!” Alfred pouted. “Look, we’re working on it. Kind of. Reclaiming the south is our top priority right now and besides, the police has got the city districts separated and everything.”

 

Kiku held up his hands and smiled wider. “I apologize,” he said truthfully. “In any case, I am also sorry I could not tell you much about the Owl. Our resources on him are quite limited.”

 

“’S’okay, Kiku, don’t worry about it,” Alfred assured him. He felt a sinking feeling in his stomach as they reached the end of that thread of conversation. It was time to ask the question he really needed to ask. “Hey, Kiku…”

 

Kiku brought his tea up to his lips. “Yes?”

 

Alfred stuck his hands in his jacket pockets to hide the way they shook with his anxiety. “Do you think it’s possible… to _make_ a half-Ghoul?”

 

* * *

It had been a terrible five days since Alfred finally got the balls (and lost enough sanity) to eat Bryan’s package. In those five days, he had to go to Japan for some CCG-USAAGA talk and managed to sneak in a few hours to hang with Kiku and ask him about the Owl. Not only that, he even managed to ask the Nation if artificial One-Eyed Ghouls were possible. Sadly, Kiku had said no, he didn’t think so, why was Alfred asking such a ridiculous question.

 

Alfred sighed, undoing the first few buttons of his polo shirt and collapsing into the sofa, jet lag at its worst. He slipped a hand into his pocket and fished out his phone. Of course there weren’t any new messages from Arthur. Why would there be? The guy was pissed. He would probably ignore Alfred for the next ten—no, next _hundred_ years if he didn’t do something.

 

But what could he do? Tell Arthur the truth? As if! Alfred would sooner end up on a dissecting table or in an isolation cell than in his lover’s arms if he did that.

 

Then again, maybe that was the best thing for him to do. He endangered less people that way and he might even offer newfound knowledge to the others who, like Kiku, thought artificial Ghoul-making was impossible. And yet… He couldn’t do it. He really couldn’t just… hand himself over like that. Not before he even figured out who had done this to him. Not before he’d exacted some not-very-American-more-Russian-or-sadistic-Japanese vengeance. Ahh, but those were all just excuses. He knew the _real_ reason he couldn’t do it.

 

He was scared. He didn’t want to be revealed. He didn’t want his friends to look at him in disgust or fear. He didn’t want his boss to be humiliated in front of the world. He didn’t want his people to lose a symbol like him. He was the walking manifestation of their hopes, dreams, and ideals for America. He was their identity. If he turned out to be the bad guy, what did that make them?

 

 _What would Arthur think if he knew?_ Alfred thought bitterly. _He would probably try to slice me open._

 

It would be even worse than the time Arthur had refused to recognize him as an independent Nation. This time, Arthur wouldn’t even consider him remotely _human_. The idea made Alfred jerk into a sitting position, tears stinging his eyes. He took off his glasses and rubbed the spot between his eyebrows.

 

That was when the doorbell rang.

 

Putting his glasses back on, Alfred stood up and walked over to the door. The white corner of an envelope poked out from beneath it. Curious, he pulled it out and looked over the creamy white paper. There was nothing on it. No address, no name, not even his. He scowled. What the hell…?

 

He opened the envelope, and pulled out a letter with small, computer-generated print. It read:

 

_To the United States of America—or should I say, Alfred F. Jones,_

 

_By now you must be settling in quite nicely with the adjustments I have made on your extraordinary body. Truly, I believe you must be my crowning masterpiece._

_But enough of this useless preamble. Enclosed is a flash drive containing the tasks you must do. Should you… fail to meet my expectations, rest assured that I have in my hands the power to destroy you and everything you hold dear._

_Sincerely,_

_V. Harster_

 

Alfred nearly dropped the letter and the tiny flash drive with how violently his hands shook. He wrenched the door open, ripping it off its hinges in his fury, and ran outside, gasping.

 

“ _Who,_ ” he screamed at the empty countryside around him, “ _the fuck are you, Harster?_ _I’ll fucking kill you, bastard! Do you hear me? I’ll fucking kill you for what you did to me, you sonofabitch!_ ”

 

He was greeted by silence but he knew, deep down beneath his boiling rage, that whoever Harster was, he could eat shit. That fucker had the nerve to threaten _the_ United States of America. Who the fuck even did that? A stupid shit-for-brains that’s what. Alfred crushed the letter and the flash drive in his hand. He pulled his arm back and pitched it out, out, out, until it disappeared into the horizon. He stalked into his home, kicking aside the unhinged door.

 

Whoever the bastard Harster was, he had it coming. He’d just picked a fight with a global superpower and Alfred would let him know just what a global superpower could do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeesh, Alfred, you pottymouth. I had to pull those curses off the top of my head, so they weren’t too creative, huh?  
> So, uh, this chapter has seen, like, five countries and four airports since it started and now it’s back home. It’s so… word-y. And I guess nothing really happened. Mostly just foreshadowing.  
> Gah, I’m so sorry guys… Anywho, here it is! I’m currently in the process of working out the plot, and ugh it’s a nightmare of sub-plots I need to tie together.  
> I really, really hope I finish this fic, because it seems really cool (for once) so I hope you guys like it and want it to continue, too.  
> Also, credits to my awesome gamer of a little bro, Jan. He came up with the badass Ghoul aliases (and a whole lot more to come) for Bryan and Jax.  
> Next chapter will be up around end of next week or next, next week!
> 
> Thanks for reading, and leave a comment if you can!


End file.
